


Moods I thru VIII

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: On Christmas Eve, a relatively drunk Alex Krycek ponders many subjects.





	Moods I thru VIII

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Moods I: Christmas by Fleur

Title: Moods I: Christmas  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: Only a PG, I suppose.  
Spoilers: Insinuated Terma, not much else.  
Summary: On Christmas Eve, a relatively drunk Alex Krycek ponders many subjects.  
Archive: Anywhere at all.  
Feedback: I live for it.   
Disclaimer: Krycek, even drunk, still belongs to Chris Carter. Hey, Chris, it's getting near Christmas... oh, and the rest of the X-Files lot belong to him, last time I checked.   
Author's Note: Beta by Frankie. Any remaining mistakes are my bad.

* * *

=====================  
"Moods I: Christmas" by Fleur  
13/12/98  
  
=====================

The wood of the counter top is dark, lovingly polished until there is a shine that I could probably slide my head along, if I so wanted. I'm in a position to tell this, because my forehead currently rests on its cool surface. 

I'm in a bar. It's not quite one of the more uptown bars; people simply come in here off the streets to get away from the cold. A lot of street workers, some tramps, two doped-looking students, and me. 

I turn my head a little in order to look through my glass. The world on the other side of it twists around, wraps around the glass, distorted. Through the ice, some parts are out of proportion with others, and I begin to wonder if anyone else sees them that way. 

The vodka here is too watered down; perhaps it is that the barkeep puts too much ice in it. I don't know. Anyway, it's pathetic. I didn't bother asking for the brand name, names just don't matter all that much.

Sounds like something Mulder would say, only because he hates his own name. I don't blame him - I doubt I'd enjoy being named after an animal. It's hard enough being an animal. Figuratively speaking, of course. 

I got a Christmas present in the mail today. The only one. Not that that's in any way surprising; just a tad depressing. It was in a plain brown wrapper, tied with string. No card, no message, and I didn't recognise the handwriting on the address. Turns out, it was rat poison. Fucking good sense of humour someone has there.

I raise my right hand to signal the barkeep, and indicate for another drink. I know what I must look like; just sitting here and downing one glass of vodka after the other, slowly getting drunk and more depressed. I'm not looking my best anyway; everything's got me down at the moment. 

The gentle clink of my glass being set down beside me momentarily brings me out of my daze, and I raise my head long enough to down the liquid. It's been a long time since I noticed the way my throat feels with vodka. It's been a long time since I noticed any pain. 

I set the glass back down, and fix my gaze on a painting on the wall to my left. The frame is somewhat tarnished, and dirty, yet the painting is intact. It looks out of place in here, where the smoke clouds my sight of it. 

It's a dirt road, and a little boy is standing on it, looking dejectedly down towards a clump of trees. He's got dirty smears on his face, and no one is around. His clothes are tattered. I wonder about the story behind the picture, and why the barkeep has it up. 

I begin to notice, at the edge of my vision, a woman watching me. She's dressed in dark clothes; perhaps a trenchcoat, I can't tell from here. I don't know who she is, or what she wants. 

Before I can move, she rises and comes over to me. She takes off her coat, placing it on the stool next to mine, and sitting on it. With one finger, she tugs my chin towards her. I notice her long, red, manicured fingernails, and cringe back. They look a lot like claws, and I suddenly see her as a cat, preying on the innocent mouse. Or rat, as the case may be.

"You look down, honey. Can I give you some Christmas cheer?"

Great, the one woman who notices me, and she's a whore. I look at her face for a while, wondering if perhaps a quick bout will bring me out of my mood, then back down. It's not that she isn't pretty; she's got long auburn locks and blue eyes, but she's too fake. I wonder if I'll ever meet a woman who isn't fake. Unlikely. I'm too fake.

"A cheap lay won't go far for me," I reply easily.

She narrows her eyes, and stands up. I watch without showing any emotion, as she picks up the dark coat and wanders back to where she came from. I'm not exactly sad to see her go. 

There's a knot in the wood beside my hand, I'm looking at it, staring. Strange how fascinating an imperfectation can be. I'm sometimes obsessive with imperfectations. They destroy the sometimes perfect symmetry of an object. I love symmetry, if nothing else. Shame I'm asymmetric.

The two students have shifted to a booth, making out. They've both got bags, of last minute shopping, I assume. I wonder when they had time to get high. Perhaps shopping came afterwards. 

Last minute shopping used to be a thing of Christmas, to me. A tradition. Like Christmas pudding, a tree, carols. Now it's something of a time long past, when I had people to shop for. There's no one, now. 

The students... she seems to stand out, bright, her features exaggerated. Like a cariacture of her real self. Her eyes are dark, cheeks bright red, everything is overdone. Her eyes are totally spaced, the pupils dilated. She looks completely foreign to me.

Caught up in my thoughts, I didn't notice a man sitting down beside me. "Scotch," he mutters at the barkeep, staring straight ahead. 

From my vantage point, I can't see his face, but he's wearing a trenchcoat. Seems to be the standard of dress, tonight. Underneath, he's wearing a black suit. 

I don't think I'm right, but it looks like Mulder. Probably my imagination again - there are a lot of men around with his build, a lot of guys who wear suits and trenchcoats. 

The barkeeper brings him his scotch, and he downs it in one gulp. Obviously upset about something. I straighten up, and clear my throat.

He doesn't notice, but the barkeep does, coming over and getting me another drink. I don't protest. While the man is at it, he gets the man I'm hoping is Mulder, another scotch.

"Thanks," I mutter, somewhat sarcastically. 

"Shut up, Krycek," the man next to me mutters back. I snap my head around to look at him, surprised, and he grins a little, cynically. "Yes, I know it's you. What do you take me for?"

It's not a good idea to answer, I decide. I can tell when to keep my mouth shut, it's just sometimes I'm unable to control it. He drinks his scotch. 

I look forward for a while, right hand tracing the outline of the gun inside my jacket. I don't know why it is, but whenever I'm around Mulder, I have this overwhelming need to pull a gun on him. I suppose it could be called a fetish. 

His left hand sneaks out and catches my right wrist. His grip tightens, and I look towards him. 

"Don't ruin the atmosphere, *Alex*," he sneers, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with him. 

Something has to be wrong if he's calling me by my first name. He's probably had a fight with Scully. I'm simply wondering if he's going to drop my wrist before he cuts my circulation off. Before I put my question into words, he lets go. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask, not really caring. I'm good like that. I just pretend to give a damn about others, I don't actually care either way.

"You're so Mr Sensitive, aren't you, Krycek?"

I don't make an effort to reply to that. After a while, and when he's had another two scotches - I've stopped drinking, I speak again, "You know, you should really try some harder stuff sometime."

"Oh, like *Real Russian Vodka*, huh, Comrade?"

"Vodka might do it," I reply, ignoring his sarcastic tone. These moods of his are easier to ride out than to fight. "It depends what you're trying to drown."

"How about my entire life up until this point?"

He is in a bad mood. Ooh, but I'm observant sometimes. "Might need something stronger, then."

He smacks his head down on the counter, and I figure it's time for me to shut up again. After a while, he looks up again, and over at me. He stares for a while, and I frown at him, wondering what the hell he could be possibly thinking. 

"What the hell is it, Mulder?"

"What colour are your eyes?"

You can't tell me that wasn't a complete and utter random tangent. Goddamn, his mind travels in strange directions. I simply shrug in reply, and turn back to the front, ignoring him. 

It's strange to have such a relatively civil conversation with Mulder. I'm used to violence, not this quiet sarcasm. Something has to be wrong with him. Perhaps it's just the "Oh, great, another Christmas" spirit. Perhaps not.

He moves his glass forward, but when the barkeep comes over to get him another, Mulder motions for him not to. I watch him, as he turns around and stands up, all in the one movement. 

"Merry Christmas, Krycek," he says, turning to leave. 

I spin around on the stool to watch his retreating form, as he walks out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. A desolate swoosh, and I sit there, wondering what the hell just happened. 

"Another vodka, sir?"

I look up, and nod wordlessly, returning my forehead to the counter top.

=================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods II: Snow  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: Only a PG, I suppose.  
Spoilers: Insinuated Terma, not much else.  
Summary: It's Christmas Day, and Mulder's alone.   
Archive: Anywhere at all.  
Feedback: I live for it.   
Disclaimer: Mulder, Krycek, Scully. Much as I love them, mine they are not.   
Author's Note: Beta-d by Frankie. Part of the "Moods" series, obviously the day after "Moods I: Christmas". Oh, and I've been remembering the Christmas beggars I came upon while on holiday in America.  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/

=====================  
"Moods II: Snow" by Fleur  
14/12/98  
  
=====================

"Silent Night, Holy Night..."

I hear the carollers on the other side of the street, as I walk briskly towards my apartment building. The singing children are holding candles, and sport very rosy cheeks. 

My building's only a block away, but I know it's going to take a while to get there. The beggars are watching me, with hollowed out eyes, a few of them with Christmas hats on, a few others with dogs. I wonder, if they're so poor, how they can afford hats?

There is snow falling, but nothing has settled. It's Christmas Day, and it's cold as. I shouldn't have left the warmth of my apartment just for a walk, but I was bored. 

Most people on this day would be with their families, but I am alone. I do have family - my mother, at least - but we don't get on that well. Scully's spending the time with her family. She invited me along, as she always does, but I refused - I don't need to spend time feeling like a tagalong.

A lone flake has settled on my black shoes. I've stopped walking without realising, and am now simply looking down at this snowflake. It's joined by another, then a couple more, before I realise the snow has started getting heavier again. 

A child squeals with delight; a girl. I look up, wondering where she is, but don't see. Perhaps it's my imagination. 

Keeping my head down, I walk on. A few beggars reach out, up towards me, "Spare some change, mister?" but I ignore them. It's not that I don't have money, or that I don't care as such. I just don't want to get involved. 

My pace becomes more clipped, and I look up to see the front of my building has somehow appeared. The snow's coming down harder now, and I open the door in order to enter.

The blast of warmth from the heaters hits me, and I blink a few times. The snowflakes on my clothing are rapidly melting into water, probably those in my hair, also. 

A woman nods at me in greeting as I pass her, going into the elevator. I press the button for my floor, and stare at the numbers lighting up until my floor, where I get out. 

There's an envelope half-under my door, and I slide it back out. In unfamiliar block writing, my name is scrawled. The black ink has smudged a little, I suppose from when the deliverer brought it over here, in the snow.

I ignore it for the time being, and unlock the door. Compared to the warmth of the hallway, my apartment is cool, and I flick the lights on, then a heater. 

I peel off my trenchcoat and gloves, hanging them carelessly on the rack. Moving over to the answering machine, I find I have a message. I sit down on the couch after pressing play. 

"Mulder, it's me."

Scully. I smile a little, despite myself. There's background noise behind her voice, which makes me think she's simply taken time out in the middle of a family thing to call me. 

"Just ringing to see how you are, Merry Christmas, you know. Hope you're having a good day."

Yeah, right. An empty one, sure. Last night was the last time I came remotely to enjoying myself, and that was probably only because I was drunk. 

"Call your mother, Mulder, okay? Just call her."

Sure, Scully. Whatever. I don't think I'll be doing that anytime soon. 

"Speak to you soon. Bye..."

I smile a little at hearing her voice again, and the machine clicks off. I should call her back, but the conversation would be too one-sided... and I don't want to make her feel bad by telling her how depressing my Christmas is.

Instead of reaching for the phone, I reach for the envelope. 

I tear it open to find a simple card, one you buy from any bookstore. A red border, and a Christmas tree, with presents under it, grace the cover. I flick it open to find a simple message...

'Mulder,

Merry Christmas.

-Alex'

Alex? Alex *Krycek*? Alex "you should try drinking some harder stuff sometime" Krycek? 

The man must be lonely, as depressed as he looked last night, if he's sending me a Christmas card. I wouldn't have expected to be on his list. His Christmas card list, anyway.

Without knowing why, I walk over to the computer, and place the card beside it. Then I look out the window, down onto the street.

The snow's started in earnest now, and I can see a couple of kids playing around in it, running through. 

I draw the curtains, unwilling to watch the outside, happy-it's-Christmas world for any longer than I have to. I move over and collapse onto the couch. Christmas can wait. Even if it doesn't, I don't really care.

Alex Krycek, sending me a Christmas card. What a joke. 

Ignoring the incredibly sad mental picture of me, alone and pathetic on Christmas Day, I close my eyes on the world.

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods III: Bonds  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Terma, Anasazi... not much else.  
Summary: Krycek reflects on events that effect him more than he likes to think.  
Archive: Anywhere at all.  
Feedback: Please, please please!   
Disclaimer: Mulder and Krycek aren't mine, nor are the other X-Files lot. Ivan is pretty much mine, but Carterboy can have him if he promises to play nice.   
Author's Note: No beta... this entire thing is my fault. <g>  
Series: The Moods series...  
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/

* * *

=====================  
"Moods III: Bonds" by Fleur  
15/12/98  
  
=====================

Piece of shit apartment. 

I really hate my apartment. It's small, cramped, dirty, and god knows what lives in the walls and under the bed, it may sound childish, but I hear noises at night. The walls seem to be covered with inground dirt, because I can't see any two places which have the same shade or colour. 

The carpet has bloodstains all over it, and I don't think any of them are from me. I don't tend to shoot people when they're standing in my apartment. But the stains are in various places around the floor, impossible to tell what they're from. 

One day I might get the blood tested, to find out who the stains are from. Could be interesting. But I don't think I can be bothered. I don't really give a damn. I think I'll have that engraved on my tombstone, "He didn't give a damn". 

If I even have a tombstone. Knowing me, I'll just have an unmarked grave somewhere far away from here. Lying where I finally stopped running, finally got killed. It's probably coming. I think I've been living on borrowed time for a while now.

Most people, I suppose, are spending this holiday with their family. I think I remember that that's what it's all about, being with your family. I can't remember when I spent a Christmas with my family; my mother committed suicide when I was very young, and my father, who I left back in Russia a long time ago, spent each Christmas getting drunk. 

I don't want to turn into a sob story, the product of a broken childhood, because I really don't give a damn. 

The phone half-beckons me, and I wonder why, wonder who I could call. The Smoking Man, I'm sure he'd love to get a call from me, considering how important I am to him and all.

I'd call Mulder, but I don't know why... he hates me, and I supposedly hate him, and anyway he'd be visiting family. 

Well, his mother, at least. It's common knowledge what happened with his sister, and I know what happened with his father. 

Right. Knowing Mulder, he'll be at home, lying on that couch of his and watching porn. That mental picture is... interesting, to say the least. I smile, despite myself.

I could go out, I suppose. What would the point be? No matter what my original destination, I'll always end up in a bar, downing glasses of vodka, and mentally complaining about the lack of quality. 

The phone rings, and I startle. Moving over to it quickly, I pick it up.

"Yeah."

The voice at the other end has a distinctly Russian accent, and professional overtone.

"Alex Krycek, please."

Suspiciously, I glance at the reciever. "This is Alex Krycek."

"I'm sorry for the delay in informing you of this, Alex," the woman begins conversationally, "But records were very hazy, and we ended up only finding your name and number through a book belonging to your father."

Get to the point, I mentally will her.

"Your father Ivan was found dead in his house, two days ago."

What?

What the hell?

I frown at the phone, uncomprehending. My father, dead? It's been so long since I thought of him as a living person, that it hardly registers. I nod, without speaking, and hang up the phone.

He's dead. 

Strange, that. I'm not sad... I just feel strange. It's weird. I never thought of my father as the dying type. I haven't thought of him as much, for a long time now. But now he's gone, and it's just leaving me with the weirdest feeling.

It's not that I'm disturbed by death, or not used to it, or anything else of the sort. I haven't had any close relation die, since I've been old enough to understand. 

But now he's gone, and I don't know what reaction to have, how to respond.

I don't think I need to cry; I don't feel all that much like crying. I had nothing to do with him, and yet, now, when he's gone, and it's Christmas Day, I suddenly almost wish I did.

He wasn't exactly a nice person, I'm not going to lie. I didn't like the bastard much when he was living, and I don't like him much when he's dead. But he was a relation, my kin, and I can't deny that bond, which is now broken, for good.

The bond in itself has never been strong, always strained, and one gets the impression we both strained it too much, but it was always within range of mending. Now it's not; irreversibly broken.

He didn't know the first thing about me. Wasn't there to comfort me when I killed someone, or almost got killed, or when I lost my arm. He wouldn't have been sober enough to, anyway.

I didn't exactly mean much to him. A name in his book, a child long forgotten. He never bothered to find out much about me; wouldn't have known my job, even my physical appearance; he wouldn't have even known about my arm.

I don't give a damn about him. 

I move to the phone, intent on phoning someone, if only to hear a voice that's vaguely familiar.

If I don't give a damn about him, why the hell am I crying?

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods IV: Analysis  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Terma. Anasazi. Uh...  
Summary: Mulder gets a phone call, and a surprise.  
Archive: Anywhere at all.  
Feedback: I'll love you forever. - you know you'll miss your Moods fixx when it's gone.  
Disclaimer: If you recognise 'em, it's a sure sign they're not mine.   
Author's Note: Beta by Frankie, who has recently come out of the closet and admitted she's obsessed with Samantha.  
Series: The Moods series...  
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Moods IV: Analysis  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/  
Devotedly for Nonie, who wanted some more.

* * *

=====================  
"Moods IV: Analysis" by Fleur  
15/12/98  
  
=====================

My peaceful rest, of closed eyes and ignorant bliss, is suddenly interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. I manage to open, with considerable effort, one eye, lifting the lid at least to half-mast, and glare at it.

The phone apparently doesn't plan to stop ringing without a fight, and I momentarily consider shooting the damn thing. However, it's probably not worth the extra expense, or having to explain to my neighbours.

Luckily, the answering machine clicks on, and I happily bury my face in one of the cushions again, drowning out the sound of my own voice. 

After the tone, there's a pause, as if the person calling has drawn a breath. Then, a muttered, "Oh, fuck."

I frown, moving my head to the top of my pillow and watching the machine, in half-interest. I don't recognise the voice, and I don't know who would be calling me. 

"Yeah. Mulder, it's Alex Krycek."

Alex... what the fuck is Alex Krycek up to? First he sends me a card. Okay, sure, I can put that down to loneliness. Fine. Nothing completely disturbingly unusual about that. But calling me, and waking me up? Destroying the one moment of peace, of happiness I've had all day? 

Simply out of curiosity, I reach over and pick up the phone. 

"What do you want?"

"Thought you might be lurking," he replies, but his voice is different, not its normal sneer. "How's Christmas?"

I wonder what he wants. It's not like Krycek to openly be so friendly. He always has a hidden agenda. Always. "Why the hell do you care?"

"I don't."

At least he's honest. I adjust my position so I'm lying back on the couch, looking out the window. "Then what do you want?"

"Can't I just call up in the interest of friendship?"

I'm stunned into surprised silence for a while, then recover. "Friendship? You can't be serious."

There's no answer, and I shake my head in disbelief. "Krycek, if you consider me a friend, I don't know who your enemies are, but I'd hate to meet them."

"So would I," he shoots back in reply. 

His voice has a strange intonation, one which I don't recognise. Not that I pride myself on knowing all the different voice tones the man has (although such a qualification would look interesting on my resume), but it sounds almost injured. Hurt somehow.

"Have you gone insane," I ask him slowly, patiently, "Or is it just my imagination?"

"Can I just have my own reasons for ringing you up?" he replies, suddenly sounding a bit more incensed, "Or do you have to analyse everything?"

"Analysing things is better, I find."

"Well, analyse this, Mulder... I have fucking feelings for you."

He... what?

What?

What the hell?

By the time I get to staring at the receiver strangely, struggling out of shock, I'm speaking to the dialtone. I don't know where that came from, and I don't know what he means by it...

Okay, so that's a lie. I know. I don't want to admit I know, but I know. 

Because I've felt...

How the hell I was planning to finish that thought, is beyond me. 

Do I even have his number to call back? I don't think so, and the energy to find it out is currently beyond me. He probably just called from some phone booth in San Jose. Or something along those lines.

I slam the phone down, and lie back, looking up at the roof. I don't know what to think about that conversation. I don't know how to take it, what to do about it. 

Alex Krycek. 

Alex "I love this country" Krycek. 

Damn. When did this happen, and who neglected telling me?

I realise, without noticing, I've brought my left hand up into my line of vision, and am flexing it, moving it. To reassure me it's still there, I suppose. I know how easily it could have been me, there in the forest.

What would it be like to be Krycek? I don't even know where he lives, let alone what his life's like.

Does he have a family? A father, like he denied me?

Perhaps he has a sister, like I used to have.

I've got to stop making these comparisons. I doubt they're healthy.

Is he like me?

Can I find out?

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods V: Pretences  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Terma, Ascension... Sleepless?  
Summary: Krycek muses about some things that have happened.  
Archive: Anywhere at all.  
Feedback: - please?  
Disclaimer: I'm sure you know by now.  
Author's Note: Beta by Frankie. Russian translations are from this nifty little travel site; http://www.travlang.com/languages/ Excuse the day missed out for a Moods piece. ;)  
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Moods IV: Analysis  
Moods V: Pretences  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/  
For Nonie and Awena. (orders get you everywhere, people..)

* * *

=====================  
"Moods V: Pretences" by Fleur  
17/12/98  
  
=====================

I lie back on my couch, the perfect picture of forced nonchalance. The couch in itself is tattered, stained, and quite frankly an awful eyesore. I sigh, glancing offhand at the phone. Its receiver is mocking me; teasing, basically telling me what a fool I was. Fool I am, more like. 

I've been a fool for a longer time now than I can remember. Than I care to remember. It's not that I'm particularly, overly stupid - I'm not. It's more that I have such a terrible inability to think outside myself, outside the present tense, to consider affects that will take their toll on anyone.

I still can't believe I said that to Mulder. 

Well, it's not the fact I said it to Mulder, that is the surprise. It's more a surprise that I actually meant it, and that I don't currently regret it as I expected that I would. Damn Mulder and his... everything. Damn him.

I can't believe it.

I can't believe I don't care.

I stand up, pick up my leather jacket and walk to the door. My jacket's definitely getting worse - it's not in the best of conditions at the moment. It'd probably be my most prized possession (sad, isn't it - my most prized possession is an item of clothing) now... sounds corny, cheesy, but we've been through a lot together.

I survey the apartment. You wouldn't know to look at me, or to look at where I live, but I have quite a keen aesthetic sense. My apartment's nothing like Mulder's. It never has been, and it probably never will be.

I'd sooner kill (though possibly not kill him) than tell him so, but I truly love his apartment. That couch is so comfortable, everything is so incredibly *him*. His remarkably unique personality is in every carelessly placed object around his...

Shit, listen to me. I sound like I'm besotted with the man. Like I'm in love with him or something.

Uh-uh. No. No way. Never.

Alex "I don't give a fuck" Krycek isn't in love with anyone... he doesn't care about anyone... doesn't give a damn... doesn't even like anyone. Let alone Fox "I'm too spooky for my fish" Mulder. 

I'm not. There's no way. I only care for myself.

Sounds awfully arrogant. How appropriate.

But I don't.

I won't.

I can't.

Angrily, I slam the door and exit the apartment, pivoting on the ball of my left foot and stalking down the hall. Nothing in this goddamn apartment building looks in the least bit clean. I look at the floor, and immediately up again, not needing to see the grime which seems to be breeding in the floors here.

I go down the stairs; always opting for the stairs as opposed to the elevator. The front doors present themselves to me, and I go through them, complete scowl on my face, ignoring everyone.

Outside, it's rapidly darkening. I didn't notice how late it was... haven't really noticed much this evening. I don't blame me. 

Why the fuck did I say that to Mulder?

The snow's still falling on the street - I decide to don my jacket and gloves. Coldness isn't the nicest feeling in the world. Despite the Siberian winters I used to endure, I don't like feeling cold.

I shrug on my jacket, then pull on my gloves. I wish I could feel the strange caress of leather on my left hand. It's funny, the things you miss. 

I snap my gaze back towards the ground, and keep my eyes trained on my feet. I walk, at a steady pace, along the path, steps making interesting sounds in the grey slush that I assume was once stark white snow. 

I stop outside a donut shop, and smile a little. Except for the "CLOSED" message emblazoned across the blackened windows, with paper behind the glass, everything is exactly the same as I remember.

The inside used to be done with yellows, oranges and reds -all terribly tasteful, all giving off a warm feeling. In my days as a Fed, I went there nightly. A ritual of mine, I suppose. I used to eat a lot, and mourn over the job I knew I was required to carry out. The job I knew I was going to carry out.

I always sat at the counter. I don't know why, exactly, I just did. I always did think it strange how there was a mirror behind the counter, opposite my usual spot. I used to look at myself, and wonder where my real self had disappeared to. 

Little wonder Mulder gave me so many looks back then. It wasn't that he found me attractive back then (why does thinking that sentence make me feel slightly sad?)... quite the opposite. I repulsed him. Not particularly surprising - I looked really, really... ugly. 

I smile at my feet, a little cynically.

When I look straight ahead into my reflection in the window, I start, seeing Little Agent Alex Krycek looking back at me, a disgusted look on his pathetic little face.

Is that really what I used to look like? I blink, and the image disappears, turning into my actual reflection. Hardened. Black leather. Sneer. Spiked hair. Sad expression that I can't explain in eyes. No left arm.

Reminds me of the completely different self I used to be.

Which me would Mulder prefer?

Oh, fuck me. What the hell do I care, about what he thinks? I don't care what anyone thinks. Let alone him.

Shit.

What's the point in pretending? Who the hell do I think I'm fooling?

I sneer at my reflection.

Merry Christmas, Agent Alex Krycek. Do svidaniya.

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods VI: Distractions  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Um... are there *any*?  
Summary: Mulder doesn't know how to take everything.  
Archive: Anywhere, anywhere at all!  
Feedback: - I can smile nicely if you want.  
Disclaimer: Oh, damnit.  
Author's Note: Beta, Frankie, Thanks... I have to learn my Roman Numerals.   
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Moods IV: Analysis  
Moods V: Pretences  
Moods VI: Distractions  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/

=====================  
"Moods VI: Distractions" by Fleur  
17/12/98  
  
=====================

Twenty-sixth of December. 

My calendar tells me that it's Boxing Day, but really it doesn't mean anything to me, except one more day, where everyone's still in "the spirit of Christmas".

Everyone but me, of course.

I think it'd have to be one of the biggest shopping days in the American year; where everyone who happens to be in the least bit dissatisfied with a gift they recieved, bustles back to the store in order to exchange it for something they want. I suppose they'd need to avoid the person who gave them the gift. I wouldn't really know; I've never been able to muster up the energy to exchange a gift.

I open a beer, and drink a little. A voice inside me is saying how truly pathetic this is; alone in my apartment the day after Christmas, drinking beer. 

Completely exemplifies my life, unfortunately.

I eye the phone, wondering if I should call Scully. There'd be little point - I can see her just having fun with her family, happy and probably forgetting about D.C. If I rang her, it'd just serve to bring her back.

I really can be a selfish bastard when I want to be. 

But I stop myself short of ringing her - I'm not *that* selfish. If it's only to hear a familiar voice, then that's totally unfair. 

There are other things I can do, but they're all... 

Well, things she would probably raise an eyebrow at. I think that's all I need to say, really. 

Why the hell can't I get Krycek off my mind? I try to think petty things, to distract myself, but I can't stop wondering about him. I think this is what they call obsession. 

I don't know what he meant. (Oh, stop it, you do so.)

I don't care what he meant. (Yeah, right, sure you don't.)

I don't give a damn about Alex Krycek. (Liar.)

I hate him. (Who do you think you're fooling?)

I throw the empty can at the rubbish bin, glaring at it when it lands a foot and a half from it. There must be a slope on the kitchen floor, or someone has moved the bin - there has to be some reason for missing. Perhaps the planets are out of alignment, the aliens have come to earth, they abducted my neighbour and therefore my apartment is lopsided...

Oh, hell, I go on about the strangest things. 

Who does Krycek think he is? 

I mean, the man drops his bombshell, then hangs up on me, leaving me with zero idea of how to contact him. It's a "don't call me/I'll call you" situation. And he's in control, he has the power.

Over me. I don't know what to do.

He's done so much to me, hurt me so many times, I think I've lost count. Betrayed me. I don't know why I always return him my trust -usually I'm nothing like that. What is it that this man has over me that no one else has?

I glare at the thought, and realise that I'm mindlessly pacing around the apartment, not accomplishing anything, except to wear down the carpet. Which isn't such a great thing, when you think about it.

Because then I'll just have to buy new stuff, and I don't think I'd be able to remember what my current carpet looks like, so I'd have to decide what kind I want... 

Distracting myself again. I've got think go through this, analyse this. 

Just like he said to. 

Okay, so the guy has feelings for me. He likes me. Possible lust factor... I guess I could have figured it out, considering all those looks he throws my way, every time we're together... 

And that I probably return.

Why the hell...

Why *would* I return his looks? Surely I don't.

I don't want to think about how many of the classic traits of denial I currently posess. It scares me. Denial, my ass. There's nothing to deny. 

No, I'm not in denial. 

Maybe I should write a book. "So. Your Worst Enemy Has Feelings For You." (Worst Enemy? I don't think that'd be Krycek. He'd be up there, but not my worst.)

Maybe it should be 'You Have Feelings For Your Worst Enemy'. 

Hell, I thought we'd established that I *don't* have feelings for him. And I'm *not* in denial. 

Scowling, I walk over to the computer desk and examine his card. So simple. What the hell was the meaning behind it? 

I take the envelope - I can't believe I kept it - and open it, for some reason that I can't explain. 

A slip of paper falls out, and I pick it up.

His address.

God. 

I have Alex Krycek's address.

Hurriedly, wondering why this matters, I grab my car keys and walk out the door.

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods VII: Temporary  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Oh, I don't know.  
Summary: Sometimes we can't go back.  
Archive: I'd like it.   
Feedback:   
Disclaimer: Christopher, you only have a few days left...  
Author's Note: To Frankie, for pre-post rubdown, and for having a cuteass email address.  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/  
Note: This is the second-last Moods piece. Thank you for your observance.  
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Moods IV: Analysis  
Moods V: Pretences  
Moods VI: Distractions  
Moods VII: Temporary

* * *

=====================  
"Moods VII: Temporary" by Fleur  
22/12/98  
  
=====================

As usual, nothing lasts forever.

A self promise from and to Alex Krycek is no exception to this. Every time after I wake up with a pounding head, and zero or little memory of the previous night, I swear off the vodka, of course. This has never lasted longer than two days. 

Which is why I'm currently seated on the floor, back up against the side of the bed, watching the diminishing level of liquid in my bottle of Stoli. I don't know how long it's been - well, I do, two-and-a-half bottles - but I've been drinking for a while now. Since I got back home from venturing out this morning.

I only went out in order to stock up, which is the usual reason, I suppose. There were so many crowds, and I wandered aimlessly, eventually giving up and coming home again. I hate attention. 

It may sound strange, but I really do. I can't stand it. Good attention is all right, I suppose... but usually it's not good, you can see the mocking faces, laughing inwardly at you.

Maybe I'm drunk. Again. Wouldn't be surprising. I'd say the majority of my alcohol consumption takes place at this time of the year, Christmas and immediately afterwards. I don't know where I get the money for it. I just find money in various places, around... in banks, in wallets that don't usually belong to me..

Okay, so I don't go in for petty theft unless I'm really desperate. However, such a statement suggests that it happens often. I suppose it does. I don't like doing it... but hell, I often do things I don't like, or don't go in for... I don't have a choice.

I lie down, head on my leather jacket, looking across the floor. Those blood stains are getting damn annoying. Some would say that they add *character* to my apartment... I have enough character of my own, thank you very much. I don't need dried blood to add to this mess. 

My mother would probably have hated my apartment. From what I was told about her, she had a keen aesthetic sense. I suppose it's where I get it from... not from my goddamn father, that's for sure. She would have come by, packed my bags and probably taken me back to Russia. I smile a little at the thought.

On a whim, I get up and go over to the one table in the place, where I have the one photo I've ever kept. It's of my mother and I - as a very small child - and she looks seriously beautiful. It may sound conceited, but as I pick it up, I realise that we share a lot of the same features. Eyes, nose, mouth shape, hair colour... unsurprising, I must be practically a clone of her, I look nothing whatsoever like my father did.

Suddenly getting an idea, I gently tuck the photograph inside the pocket of my sweats, and pick my leather jacket off the floor.

Screw Mulder. If he hasn't found my address by now, he's not going to. Screw him.

I look around at the apartment again, wondering why the hell I ever decided to live here. It sucks, I hate it, I've never liked it, it's not even cheap...

But, oddly enough, it carries with it a lot of emotional baggage. I've lived in this apartment, although on a very irregular basis, for three years. 

I used to lie on the bed, when I was a Good Little Agent of the FBI, and think about Mulder, loosen my belt, slip my hand inside, and work myself. That lower lip, his wit, everything... his eyes, the way he looked at me...

After I left the Bureau, the apartment became a place to come and lick my wounds. Every time something went wrong, I'd come back here and think about it, berate myself, get drunk over it...

The only time I didn't come here after a major blow was after Russia, with Mulder. That set me back too far; I went home. 

Pretty loosely used word, in this case. My father didn't recognise me; I got a vodka bottle hurled at my head, and several curses directed at me. So I crawled away, found a hospital, did everything following up that was required, and made my way back to America.

I suppose some of the bloodstains are mine. 

This place doesn't even have a television. Hell, I don't need one that bad. Knowing my luck, if I got one, they'd probably be having a marathon of "The Fugitive". Luck doesn't exactly smile upon me.

I walk over to the 'kitchen' - the size of a closet, individualised only by lino and a small stovetop which I could probably fit two vodka bottles on - and look around. Nothing of any value. 

I step back out into the main room. There's nothing of value in this room, either. 

Screw Mulder!

Completely clear in my mind, I pick up the box of matches which rests on my bed, strike one, and light the bed. If he does come, he'll be in for a surprise. 

I leave, shutting the door behind me, closing a chapter in my life I'd prefer to forget. 

=====================

End  


 

* * *

 

Title: Moods VIII: Flames  
Author: Fleur  
Rating: PGish.  
Spoilers: Take a pick.   
Summary: You don't realise what an opportunity is until it passes by.  
Archive: It'd be nice.  
Feedback: Now would be a good time to catch up on feedback you've been meaning to send but neglecting.   
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Not my lyrics.   
Author's Note: Thanks to Frankie, for grooming and nice pre-post beta.  
Website: http://members.xoom.com/Krycek1013/Delicate/moods/  
The final in the all pain, all darkness, all coldness, all the time series, Moods.  
Moods I: Christmas  
Moods II: Snow  
Moods III: Bonds  
Moods IV: Analysis  
Moods V: Pretences  
Moods VI: Distractions  
Moods VII: Temporary  
Moods VIII: Flames  
Dedicated to Frankie, because.

* * *

=====================  
"Moods VIII: Flames" by Fleur  
23/12/98  
  
=====================

//Sometimes you turn away from what your heart tells you is right//

Ignoring my thoughts, which are running every which way but the logical, at the moment, I drive through the streets, leaving off at semi-regular intervals to check the piece of paper with Krycek's address on. 

The streets around here are a lot darker. I don't know if that's simply my imagination, it could be... but they seem darker, creepier... and the people are giving me strange looks. I don't think I'm making that up.

There are a few cars around, but they're mostly wrecks at the side of the road. Blackened. A lot of them have been burnt from the inside out, for the insurance money I suppose. Not that anyone who lives around here could even afford insurance.

Okay, so that was an incredibly judgemental statement. But they don't look like they could afford anywhere to live, enough to eat... let alone insurance in case their car gets damaged, stolen, or... burnt from the inside out. 

I sigh a little, and keep driving. 

It's getting fairly late, and there are prostitutes lining the sidewalks. I'm careful not to make eye contact with any of them. I'm not in the mood for that sort of thing. I suppose it's been a while since I was in the mood.

//And so you settle for whatever gets you through the night//

To my left, I see a man who looks a lot like Krycek. Same build, leather jacket, jeans, figure... I snap my vision over to glance at him, and realise that it's simply my mind playing tricks on me again. I'm seeing Krycek in places he isn't. 

I wonder if that means anything. Probably not. 

Actually, I lie. It probably does. 

Trying not to think or make judgements on anyone who's staring, leering and pointing at my car, I turn into the road Krycek's apartment is supposedly on. 

There's nothing that is any better than the rest of the neighbourhood. Gingerly, not willing to leave my car, locked or otherwise, with everyone looking at it in the way they are, I pull over and step out of my vehicle.

Several people are on the curb, and they reach out to touch and stroke my car. I wonder about them... what they're like. If my car is such a wondrous object to them, what does it say? What does my car mean to them?

Still clutching the piece of paper tightly in my left hand, I lock the car and walk into the building. 

There's a lot of noise, coming from upstairs. I jog up two flights, to Krycek's floor, and see a crowd at the far end. I don't know what they're there for, but I go along to them.

Checking the number of the door they're standing outside against the number on my paper, I realise they're one and the same. This is Krycek's apartment. 

The door's slightly ajar, and I see inside... at the ashes of a fire. 

//The flame you thought was dead may suddenly begin to burn//

I don't believe it. I won't believe it.

I can't.

I push through, and am stopped by someone. "Hey, you can't go in there."

"FBI," I reply instinctively, and although I don't have my badge on me, he lets me past. I walk into the small apartment, and look around for a minute. 

It doesn't say much about Alex. The apartment hardly seems to be his. Nothing characteristically him is anywhere to be seen, burnt or otherwise. 

I walk over to a table, find a few photos scattered around. They're only burnt at the edges, and I can still make out...

My face?

Wordlessly, I pick the three photos up, and slide them into my pocket. I walk out again, and stop at an old lady. 

"Did you know the man who lived here? Alex Krycek?"

"Oh, Alex," she begins, smiling sadly. "Lovely boy. Lovely. It's such a shame..."

"Such a shame?" I repeat. It's an old psychologist's trick, to repeat the last few words of what a person says, to keep them talking. She looks at me. 

"Well, he was in the apartment when the fire happened. No one saw him walk out the front doors."

No. 

No.

No!

It can't be right. I stare at her blankly, not seeing anything, and distractedly wonder why someone like her is living in a place like this. 

Without saying another word, I turn and walk down the hall, stopping at the end. 

Why? Why now?

Goddamn, Krycek, Alex, can't I have another chance? 

I kneel down, as if I was a child needing to pray, and look out the grease-stained window. 

Why has it taken me so long? Because of that, I've lost the opportunity. It's gone. And I'm never going to get such a chance again. 

The hopes and anti-dreams of the holiday season. 

All gone up in flames.

//And broken hearts can be repaired, that's something that you learn//

=====================

End, and this time there's not a continuation.  


 

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